Phillips Indian Educators

Imagine if every major decision made today had to answer one question:

“How will this affect people seven generations from now?”

That idea exists in many Native American traditions through the philosophy often called the “Seven Generations” principle — the belief that decisions should consider their impact far into the future.

Think about how different the modern world might look if governments, corporations, and societies operated that way.

Would forests be disappearing as fast?
Would oceans be polluted?
Would short-term profit outweigh long-term survival?

The philosophy is powerful because it forces humanity to think beyond immediate gain.

Modern culture often rewards speed, consumption, and instant results.
The Seven Generations mindset rewards responsibility.

It recognizes something ancient cultures understood deeply:

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors.
We borrow it from our descendants.

That perspective may be one of the most important lessons humanity needs.

On Education: "...With regard to American Indians, this means understanding that "the Indian Problem" is not a problem of children and families but rather, first and foremost,a problem that has been consciously and historically produced by and through the system of colonization: a multidimensional force underwritten by Western Christianity, defined by white supremacy, and fueled by global capitalism."--from Red Pedagogy

This powerful image captures White Moon, a Northern Cheyenne who fought in the historic Battle of Little Bighorn. Decades after the battle, he is seen holding a Springfield carbine taken from a U.S. 7th Cavalry soldier during the conflict.

The photograph is more than just a portrait. It represents survival, memory, and history carried forward through one individual’s life. White Moon lived through one of the most significant battles between Native American forces and the U.S. Army, where combined Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors defeated Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer’s regiment.

By holding the rifle years later, he preserves a direct connection to that moment in history—a physical reminder of resistance and endurance.

Images like this challenge us to look beyond objects as simple relics of war. They tell stories of people, identity, and lived experience.

What may appear as a weapon is also a symbol of survival carried not just in hand, but in memory across generations.

When someone leaves this world,
we do not say they are gone.

We say…
they are traveling.

For four days,
we build a fire that must not die.

Not because we fear the dark—
but because we understand it.

The spirit has begun a journey
that the body cannot follow.
A path older than memory.
A road our ancestors walked before names were written.

And for those first four days…
they are still close.

Closer than breath.
Closer than tears.

So we light the fire.

Not just with wood—
but with intention.

Every spark is a prayer.
Every crack of the flame is a voice saying:

“You are not alone.”

They say the spirit watches.

They come back to see who is there.
To feel the love one more time.
To hear the laughter through the grief.

To know…
they mattered.

The fire becomes a beacon.

In the dark between worlds,
light is everything.

The flame tells them where home is.
Where their people are.
Where their name is still being spoken with love.

We sit with that fire.

We don’t rush it.
We don’t turn away.

We keep watch.

Because love does not end at death—
it changes responsibility.

Now it is our duty
to help them find their way.

For four days,
we feed the fire like we fed them in life.

We speak to them.
We cry.
We remember.

We tell stories they already know—
but need to hear one last time.

And slowly…
something shifts.

The heaviness begins to lift.
The silence changes.

The spirit begins to understand:

It is time.

On the fourth day,
the fire has done its work.

Not because we stop loving them—
but because we trust them to continue.

The flame fades,
but the connection does not.

It never does.

We do not keep the fire
because they are lost.

We keep the fire
because they are on their way.

And for those four sacred days,
we become the light
that guides them home.

Before the sun rose, an old wooden wagon slowly rolled down a dusty road. Inside sat three Native children—scared, silent, confused. Just yesterday, they were taken from their homes. Their mothers’ cries still echoed in their hearts.
This wasn’t a mistake. It was a system—designed to erase who they were. Schools like Carlisle, Chilocco, Haskell, and Sherman had one goal: to take the Indian out of the child.
These children came from proud nations—the Sioux, Navajo, Apache, Ojibwe. They carried ancient languages, sacred songs, and names full of meaning. But at the school gates, all of it was taken.
Their long braids were cut off. Their traditional prayers were banned. The smell of cedar and sage was replaced with bleach. If they spoke their native language, they were punished. If they cried, they were silenced.
Some of them were just five years old.
Some forgot who they were. Some whispered their truth under scratchy wool blankets. And some held on to their roots, waiting for the day they could grow again.
Today, we remember them—the survivors. The quiet children who grew into strong voices. The ones who turned pain into power.
Because you can take a child away from their land, but you can never take the spirit out of their people.
Message to all: Never forget the past, and always honor those who stood strong when the world tried to break them.

Remembering Joseph Marshall III
Tribal Affiliation: Sicangu Lakota
Born: April 8, 1945, South Dakota
Died: April 18, 2025

Known for: Historian, educator, author, actor, and public speaker.

Joseph Marshall III was raised on the Rosebud Sioux Reservation, where he learned Lakota as his first language and was grounded in a rich tradition of storytelling. He went on to teach, develop Native studies curricula, and work with the Rosebud Sioux Tribe before becoming a full-time writer.

A prolific author, he published numerous books and screenplays, earning international recognition. He also contributed to film and television, including Into the West, and was a skilled practitioner of traditional Lakota archery.

Marshall leaves behind a lasting legacy of cultural preservation, education, and storytelling.